


Surprises

by virusq



Series: The Marvelous Misadventures of Melia Ragnarok [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: 7-8 BBY, Chemical warfare, Friendly Fire, Gas Masks, Gen, Military, Military Training, Shitty teachers, Surprises, baby ISB agents, because that is my jam, no canon characters, tear gas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 15:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11717304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virusq/pseuds/virusq
Summary: Melia hates surprises.Well, no. That's not entirely fair. Melia likes surprises: the kind that cover your eyes with sweaty hands and make your breath hitch in your throat. The kind that come wrapped in clasped fingers and goofy grins. The kind that remind her of people she trusts.However, the military grade tear gas canister rolling across the floor is not one of those surprises.





	Surprises

**Author's Note:**

> I'm slogging through wildfire smoke from British Columbia, right now. In my oxygen deprived state, I thought it would be therapeutic to torture my original character. Mileage may vary.

Melia _likes_ surprises: the kind that cover your eyes with sweaty hands and make your breath hitch in your throat. The kind that come wrapped in clasped fingers and goofy grins. The kind that remind her of people she trusts.

However, the military grade tear gas canister rolling across the floor is not one of those surprises. In fact, as she leaps from her bunk and scrambles to pull her shirt over her mouth and nostrils, her stance on surprises is suddenly in question.

Her eyes burn as she steadies herself along the wall, her fellow cadets choking and vomiting next to those whose genetics have graced them with longer legs and a fraction of more time with breathable air.

And that's when she realizes the exercise is a test designed specifically to eliminate the smaller cadets like herself. Tears streak down her blurring eyes as she allows the shirt to fall around her shoulders. Her lungs burn as she gulps in the toxic air and she glares at the officers standing in the doorway. Their crisp grey uniforms almost complementary to their rebreathers and goggles.

They watch as her chest heaves involuntarily from the fumes. They watch as her squad mates pass out on the floor. They watch as her attention wavers due to oxygen deprivation. They just watch.

Her chest spasms with a cramp and she winces, clutching at her ribs and begging every ounce of stubborn determination within her keep her vertical while she curses her literal shortcomings. 

Hours later -- maybe seconds, she can’t differentiate time through the chemical fog laying siege to her consciousness -- the recirculators are turned back on. The smoke begins to clear, lingering in eddies around obstacles. The aftermath of the small grey bunker looks like a war zone: bodies strewn where they fell, footlockers toppled, a few conscious cadets whimpering and injured in their panic. 

“Congratulations,” says the tall, slender man whose rebreather mask distorts any shred of sympathy. As if she should be proud of her position while her clothes suck to her sweat-sheened body. “You've survived a surprise encounter with the enemy.”

The officer toes a young man -- Cairns, the youngest of three from Rinn, a planet so small she had to look it up -- who winces at the unexpected impact. His head buries deeper into his stained knees as he tightens the curl of his fetal position. This is the last time she’ll see him.

“Since you didn't recover the supplies before the separatists made orbit, they have used them against you.” He clasps his hands behind his back. The posture strikes her a bit like a carrion bird amidst the horror. “Those of you with the fortitude to remain standing proceed onto the next trial. The rest of you can clean up and go home.”

This isn't a test. Normal chemical exposure is done in drills, over days, with preparation and controlled environments. This is not normal. This is punishment. This is military grade tear gas being used on their own soldiers. While they slept. The anger burns within her, igniting the toxins as they churn her stomach.

She spits fury, her retort stifled by a wracking cough, but it's enough dissension to garner the spotlight.

The officer steps over a second cadet on his path to her. His presence before her is hatred and smoke billowing through the tears. The contempt can be heard through his rebreather. “Something to add, cadet?”

She stands ramrod straight, clenching her teeth and staring past the clump of sweat-soaked hair clinging to her face. “Not a surprise, sir,” she manages, her throat raw. 

He removes his rebreather mask and hands it off to an aide while studying her with grey eyes. He’s an older man, trim. Whether through neurological or physical damage from the smoke, she can’t make out any finer features. His red face hovers before hers. “Explain yourself, cadet.”

“This was familiar. Internal. Intentional.” He doesn’t move to correct her, so she forces another breath of air down and continues. “This was an attack on the empire by someone claiming to uphold the empire’s best interests, sir.”

The forced air movement in the room chills her sweat soaked body while she waits for the officer’s response. Her muscles ache and begin trembling. She’s not sure what was worse: the initial poisoning or the after effects. Between the sickness spreading through her nerves and the sheer audacity of the man attacking his own students, she’s almost willing to be expelled. Almost.

“Cadet Ragnarok is correct.” He turns away from her and pitches his voice to address the room. “One of your own suggested this attack as part of their entry application.”

Among the handful of wavering teenagers still standing, no one is surprised. All of them are _angry_.

The officer continues, “I will be taking six of you onto the next stage of this exam. Eight of you are still standing. I suggest you find your traitor quickly.”

He leaves Melia in a crisp movement, walking back toward the exit. Unable to refrain, her voice cuts through the room and leaves dead silence in its wake. “That’s seven, sir.” 

The officer stops, his back turned to the room, and no one dares breathe before the response. It’s an excruciating pause. Despite her best effort, Melia’s knees sway and she catches herself on a bunk rail. Her eyes close to blot out the stares.

“Excellent observation.” The man’s sneer is audible, although he doesn’t turn to display it. “I trust any cadet worthy of graduation is capable of resolving that bit of arithmetic before their flight tomorrow.”

Every inkling of trust and comradery leaves with the officer as the door slides shut behind him.

Someone shoves a mop into Melia’s free hand, jerking her back into consciousness. She recognizes this human shaped blob of smoke as Prednis. “I don’t know how you did it,” he growls, “but if you can survive that, you can help clean.”

“I hate surprises,” she decides.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a friend who went through basic training and said that his favorite part was the tear gas drills. He got to stand in a cold room and have someone fill the room with tear gas. It was literal torture "but really not that bad, now that I think about it. Peaceful. Quiet. Yeah, I'd do it again."
> 
> Melia's my traitor child that grew up in an imperial family with an imperial education and imperial training. I wanted her to be a damn fine Imperial Intelligence agent who did some damn fine work for some perfectly damnable assignments. Except, the more I read about Imperial Intelligence, the more they sound like stereotypical brain washing villains. 
> 
> _Inferno Squad_ hit all the right notes, for me. I kind of wanted to jot down some ideas before Seyn Marana hijacks my headspace.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
